HIRELING
Cars pass him by; he'll never own one.
Men wonft believe in him for this.
Let them come into the hills
And meet him wandering a road,
Fenced with rain, as I have now;
The wind feathering his hair;
The skyfs ruins, gutted with fire
Of the late sun, smouldering still.
Nothing is his, neither the land
Nor the landfs flocks. Hired to live
On hills too lonely, sharing his hearth
With cats and hens, he has lost all
Property but the grey ice
Of a face splintered by life's stone.